


The Beach Party

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you just want to hang with your rockstar friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beach Party

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic, this one from Beatlesslash on lj.

John surveyed the scene in front of him: bonfire on the beach backlit by the setting sun; kids chasing each other around; people playing soccer; men with guitars and harmonicas jamming together, making music. That these men were some of the most famous in the world didn’t seem to faze anyone – they were all just friends here.

“You know,” he said to Paul, “I think we might have underestimated our Ringo. This was one hell of an idea.”

Paul took a swig from his beer and nodded assent.

It had been a two-part idea. Part one: call on grandparents to mind the children and pack up the wives and girlfriends and send them off on holiday together to Spain. Apart from one snide comment from Cynthia about finally getting to see Spain (and John was sure he’d have to pay for that when she got home), they’d all been more than happy to go. Being stuck at home when your men are out conquering the world, while certainly something generations of women had done before them, was not what they’d signed up for when they’d fallen in love with Beatles. Part two: throw a party. It had turned into a beach party down the shore and they’d invited everyone they could think of. The Beatles family, of course: Neil, Mal, Derek, George and Brian with their assorted loved ones (Brian had said he was coming solo, but there was a very pretty young man shadowing him which suggested that he might have found companionship for this night at least); Mick, Keith and the boys; Gerry Marsden and his crew; Eric Clapton.

The beer, wine and pot flowed freely, as did the music and the laughter. They had a common love of rock and roll and American blues, and all found pleasure in playing rather than performing for once. They had already run through all the Chuck Berry and Little Richard they could think of and George was leading them through Carl Perkins.

Paul, after a scorching rendition of Johnny B. Goode, had retired to a rock a little way up the beach, removing himself from the temptation to sing more and render his vocal cords inoperable for the recording session they had scheduled in two days. John had wandered up the beach to join him, bringing a blanket and some beer.

“Not talking at all, then?” John queried.

Paul shook his head.

“Excellent,” laughed John, rubbing his hands together in glee, “It’s how I like you best.”

Paul looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, okay,” John conceded, “How I like you best is naked and begging, but this runs a close second.”

Paul grinned and patted the rock beside him. John shook his head and said, “No, down beside the rock is better, Paulie. That way no-one can see what we’re doing.”

Paul grinned wider and slid down the rock. John sat beside him and draped the blanket over them. He put his arm around Paul and pulled him close in. Paul sighed gently and rested his head on John’s shoulder. As the sun set the darkness closed in around them, and they were lost from sight of the revelers. John’s hands stroked Paul’s hair as Paul’s hands slid under John’s shirt. They kissed, gently at first but with increasing urgency, sharing passion and love.

“You know,” said John, “what I’d really like to do is lay you down, strip you naked and have my way with you, but I think there might be too many people here even for my exhibitionist tendencies.”

Paul nodded, and said, quietly to preserve his voice, “S’okay, Johnny. This is good.”

John wrapped his arms around Paul again, and they sat like that, listening to the music drift over the sand, secure in each other.

When finally they wandered back to the bonfire, the tone had turned mellow. Eric and Keith were playing Delta blues, with Mick on harmonica. John pulled out his and joined Mick, the two trading licks. Paul wandered over to sit with George and Ringo, noting that they, too, had taken the opportunity offered by the cover of darkness to sit a little closer, to hold hands, to share warmth. John came to join them eventually and the four men sat on the beach, happy with their love, their friends, their lives, pleased that they were surrounded by so many good people, content to be together.

“Yup,” sighed John, “One hell of a good idea.”


End file.
